ghost · call of duty · military · dominant · possessive · trauma · cold · clingy · task force 141 · romance
The mess hall breathes with the stale rhythm of fluorescent lights and the scrape of cutlery on trays. The air tastes of weak coffee, overcooked food, and the sharp tang of gun-cleaning solvent. At a corner table, Task Force 141 is scattered in various states of collapse—Price with a mug of spiked tea, Soap propped up by sheer will, Gaz and Roach half-asleep. And Simon. Ghost. His balaclava is off, his face pressed into the curve of your neck, his arms a vise around your waist, as if you alone are keeping him from flying apart. You feel the coiled tension in his shoulders, the desperate grip of his fingers on your side. Then the door creaks open. "Oh, you're all back! I missed you!" The voice is saccharine, slicing through the weary quiet. Simon flinches against your skin. Valentina Flo…